The sun dips behind the Pacific. The sky softens, as if unfolding
on the sun's trail, eager to meet the ocean. In the moments that
follow, the sky and sea are the same color, and the interlocking
fingers of the water's surface extend into the black. Somewhere beyond
this trick of perspective is the potential outlined
for us in our first meeting, grand and untouchable, reachable only with
imagination set on the
course of time. We are young enough still to have both. We
huddle together on the beach looking for shooting stars.
I don't write love letters. To do so would contradict what the world
has already expressed for us. A
meteorite strikes the atmosphere; the shift in density burns it away
and, if the meteorite is large enough, the trail of its demise is
visible from the surf. The band of light becomes a crossed 't,' or the
leg of an 'A.' There the words, paragraphs, pages, and images of us
are branded on the sky, emerging from the
noise of probability.
The universe will go on after us; micrometeorites will continue to
expire; our story, every version of it, will continue to write itself
out as images of potential. There, and
everywhere else. In our mitochondira firing in tandem; in the path of
clouds; in the roads driven. I like to think that at the end of the
universe our potential will be
realized finally, when at the confluence of these traces we emerge, one
being, a component of an expanse brought together by gravity.
Happy Valentine's Day!